


And Miles to Go Before I Sleep

by Miniatures



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, M/M, Pining, Robert Frost, pre-Meta Fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-22
Updated: 2015-01-22
Packaged: 2018-03-08 14:43:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3212942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miniatures/pseuds/Miniatures
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gabriel managed to find the bunker midflight in the dark, though it was hidden.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And Miles to Go Before I Sleep

Gabriel managed to find the place midflight in the dark, though it was hidden. He’d always been good at finding things, which was good, because the warding shielded it from view on every plane but the physical—he curled a lip. What must it be like, he wondered, to only perceive on this level? The entrance to what was now the Winchester’s bunker only existed in three dimensions. Like a paper house to an archangel.  

It was odd being corporeal again. The twining of muscle and bone, the subtle tugs of skin were all familiar and yet alien, his vessel burning tacky against his Grace like thighs on dry waterslides. But Gabriel relished the feel of it, that hunk of clay he’d worn for a millennium. It was a second home. He carried it towards Sam and Dean’s new home on slow-moving feet, crunching in the snow.

Crisp, cool air coiled around him, but he barely felt it. Nor did he feel the sharp wind that ruffled his hair, nor what should’ve been the sting of icewater pooling in his snow-vulnerable shoes.

The sudden slicing burn of hooks in his Grace, an ache that started in his chest and pulsed ugly and hot in every corner and edge he had.

_That_ he felt.

He staggered back. Metatron was calling. The fucker had him on metaphysical meathooks and he was always tugging, _tugging._ Because Gabriel was needed. Because Gabriel had sworn to help him. Because Gabriel just wanted five minutes of peace and what he was getting was tossed around like the Scribe’s prized mook.

He didn’t have to answer right away. Even as he stood there the burn was beginning to fade. Metatron would tug again soon, but for the moment he was free.

Free to knock. Free to talk. Free to announce his joyous rebirth to the idiots who’d convinced him to get himself killed in the first place.

He remained where he was.

Like they’d want to hear from him. Like they’d care. And it wasn’t like he owed them anything, any explanations, but oh boy would they ask for them. He could see Dean roll his eyes, see the tight set of Sam’s jaw. That same lost, pleading look the younger Winchester had shot his way so many times— _just help us. Please._

Archangelic powers could be such a fucking burden. Especially when the people asking for help had impossible eyes— _seriously, Sam, pick a fucking colour—_ and legs that went on for miles. When they were fierce and soft and stood up to devils for the sake of a world that despised them. When they smiled at the archangels in question, smiled bright and curious like a boy with a crush.

Yes, _especially_ then.

Gabriel wanted to see that smile again. But he knew he wouldn’t. The Winchesters ( _Sam_ ), for all their good points, were just like everyone else. They _needed_ , they begged and they pressed and they made demands. Because that’s what Gabriel was—he was there to be used.

Tug and burn and _yes, Metadick, I’m coming._

Gabriel would come back. When he was free of obligation, when the Winchesters no longer _needed_ —when he had a chance to earn that smile again.

He stepped away from the paper house and ached. Because he knew that wouldn’t be for a long, long time.

**Author's Note:**

> I had a lecture on Robert Frost poems and "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening" (which is where the title comes from) got me all choked up so obviously I had to write angsty Sabriel.


End file.
